


Never Knows Best

by windychimes



Category: FLCL
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windychimes/pseuds/windychimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naota goes down to the river sometimes. It’s been a long time, it feels like a long time, since he’s seen Mamimi. He still goes, though. Maybe out of habit, maybe out of some sort of—sort of, lame hope that she’ll come back. She never does, and maybe that’s for the better, ‘cause Naota carries Haruko’s guitar around now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Knows Best

Everything really is ordinary now.

Mamimi and Haruko never came back. The hillside has started growing over the old Medical Mechanica building, green crawling up the metal and clinging to it; only out-of-towners even notice it anymore, and no one ever comes to visit Mabase.

Nothing amazing ever happens.

Naota goes down to the river sometimes. It’s been a long time, it feels like a long time, since he’s seen Mamimi. He still goes, though. Maybe out of habit, maybe out of some sort of—sort of, lame hope that she’ll come back. She never does, and maybe that’s for the better, ‘cause Naota carries Haruko’s guitar around now. When it plucks at night he jumps awake and looks in the top bunk before he can fully realise what he’s doing. Haruko’s stuff is still scattered across the bed, but she’s nowhere in sight.

He lets his feet drift in the water, his black uniform pants rolled up to his knees. The water’s always too cold but he swings his legs in it anyway, shivering the longer he’s in. He holds the guitar close to his chest and tries to remember the notes Haruko taught him. He never can, so he just plucks something that maybe almost sounds similar.

(it’s been so long)

Sometimes he stays till the sunsets, half-hidden behind the Medical Mechanica iron. The sky turns a shade too light of purple and if he looks closely he can see little twinkling stars. He usually leaves by then, legs half-frozen and teeth chattering, but he doesn’t today. Today he waits until the sky begins to turn purple, a real purple, with dark orange streaks along the horizon. From his breast pocket he pulls, with shaky hands, a cigarette. On the side ‘NEVER KNOWS BEST’ lines it, embossed in black.

Like Mamimi would do.

He pulls the match out along with it, fingers unable to still. He still keeps the guitar pressed close against his chest as he lights the match, breath caught in his throat as he press it against the cigarette. The cigarette lights and he throws the match into the river, watching it as it fizzles and burns out. He doesn’t exhale till the cigarette is pressed against his lips, eyes closed. And when he does inhale, he nearly drops the cigarette, hacking and coughing as smoke fills his longs. His eyes tear up as he gasps for breath and he falls back, back hitting the grass with a hard thump.

He finds himself crying and first it’s because of the smoke, then because the cigarette presses into his hand, glowing tip burning his palm.

And then it’s because he feels something well up inside him and he _misses_ Haruko, and Mamimi, and he misses how it used to be. Haruko was such a pain but—but loved her, loves her, and he still is waiting even after this long. And maybe he loves Mamimi too, even though she wanted his brother—his brother in America playing an American sport with his American girlfriend and all his American friends.

He misses the super spicy bread they used to sell at the bakery, and Miya-Jun’s stupid chopstick lessons, and riding behind Haruko on her Vespa when the salty air would sting the back of his nose, and when Mamimi would bite him, and—

He spends a long time there, just crying. The cigarette presses into his hand until it’s only ash but he can still feel the heat of it, little embers embedded in his palm. The guitar sinks hard into his abdomen and he gasps for breath and pushes it off as his tears finally die down. By the time he sits up the sky is all purple, deep and dark, and the stars glimmer brightly. The moon shines down onto the river and the water reflects back its paleness. Naota watches the river for a while, eyes half-lidded and guitar resting next to him, before he pushes himself in.

The water is shockingly cold and he cries out, thrashing about wildly. Everything envelopes him for a moment, freezing him and holding him tight; and it’s nice, too, something familiarly painful but new and maybe he craves it a little, maybe he wants it back. He pulls himself out as soon as he’s in, and his fingers dig deep into the ground as he drags himself onto it.

He knows if he stayed any longer he wouldn’t want to leave.

He finds the cigarette still in his hand, crumpled and washed out, and he places it back in his breast pocket. He slips back on his shoes and picks up Haruko’s— _his_ guitar and heads home, but not before looking up at the dark night sky for one more long moment.

Nothing amazing ever happens here.

And he wishes nothing ever had.


End file.
